


Prompts

by lepennell



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepennell/pseuds/lepennell
Summary: Just some prompts :)





	Prompts

**Author's Note:**

> This is about a man waking up from a s*icide attempt, and spans over 10 seconds.

10 Seconds  
Second one. Alex blinked, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. Everything was so bright, as if the world had lit up and he’d missed it. It was so white, and he wondered if he’d died and gone to heaven.  
Second two. The world was blurry. It was so bright, but so blurry. Everything was blurred, like an abstract painting. He was in a painting, shades of white blurring to become one arger picture, one he couldn’t quite grasp, or see.  
Second three. The sound was fuzzed, as if what noise he did hear was just amplified vibrations, although that was technically what all sound is. He was drowning in a white lake, sounds unable to be heard, anything but white unable to be seen.  
Second four. The touch he felt was barely there, fizzing and breaking around the edges. Was someone- something- touching him in the painting? A paintbrush? In the lake? A fish? He couldn’t tell. He smelled nothing, because he was submerged? Because he was in a blur of art? He wasn’t sure.  
Second five. The world became a bit sharper now as he stepped out and away from the painting. Shades of blue, black, grey mixing in with the white. The sounds became more clear, his head breaking the surface of the lake. He felt skin, not just brushes of a paintbrush or creature. He felt fabric, slight pressure, cool air.  
Second six. The world focused, the entire painting coming into view, the lake water stilling. He was surrounded by faces, concerned faces. They belonged to his family, his friends. It smelled like soap, hand sanitizer, medicine. The sounds roared to life, becoming a sort of music. The drip of liquid, clicking of pens, sounds of feet, TVs, sleeping, breathing. It all combined to make a sort of bittersweet tune. The tune of life and death.  
Second seven. The realization hit him, where he was. He was not in a painting, a lake, a musical symphony. He was in a bed. Hooked up to an I.V, surrounded by people he loved. This was not how it was supposed to happen. He shouldn’t be here. He had decided that a while ago.  
Second eight. His heart rattled his body, creating a beat that pressed against his skull. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his arms shook. He wanted to go back into the painting of the white, to the lake, to the music. His body trying to take him back.  
Second nine. The raised voices, the drips, the cloth, all fuzzed out. Everything became white again. There was white running through his veins. White lake water. He was going back. He was going back to the painting, where he’d be safe.  
Second ten. He was back, surrounded by white, muffled sounds, fuzzed touches, his heart still again. And then the world became dark again.


End file.
